


Fevered

by violenteer



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Poetic, kinda psychedelic, like... dreamy, yeah.... i dont know how to tag it really. just balls to the wall. ever put your balls to the wall?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violenteer/pseuds/violenteer
Summary: Sex is easy here. Death is easy here. Life has never felt freer. Waylon doesn’t think he could ever learn to go back. What’s left for him in the past? What is there in the waking world? No one makes him feel like this.





	Fevered

Waylon’s mouth is open, arms bare but for the split skin that runs over in contrasted blues and purples. His black eyes are unfocused, not sure where they should be looking. Uncaring, most likely.

Eddie is above him. He seems to be missing something crucial. His smile splits his skin open and continues off the edge of his face, trailing into the sides of his head where his hair has been shaved. His humanity has started to waste away. The scoring on Waylon’s arms paint Eddie, too. His chest is crossed over and over, green and brown slipping through.

They make eye contact and start to shudder, unaware of how they could have gone so long without being in the same room together. Murkoff is overrun with missed connections, but they made it through. Somehow. And now here they are; it looks like this.

There’s blood on the walls. It oozes up and down, gravity forgotten somewhere along the way. The blood is a crisp black that Eddie falls in love with whenever he can taste it. Severed legs and arms create something of a nest around the two lovers. A bed of flesh for them to confirm their carnality. Sins of the flesh have been permitted and repeated in a vacuum.

There are hundreds of Waylon slipping past their vision, flying off the screen. They echo out of him. They pulse like a heartbeat.

Eddie’s cock slides easily into Waylon’s abused hole. The two of them shake and laugh, snapping voices made into physical forms around their aching, bruising, moving bodies. Eddie’s voice, low and sweet, is like sticky honey. Waylon’s breathless shrilling is more like pollen. They combine and reduce, evaporate and corrode.

Sex is easy here. Death is easy here. Life has never felt freer. Waylon doesn’t think he could ever learn to go back. What’s left for him in the past? What is there in the waking world? No one makes him feel like this.

His purples mix with Eddie’s greens. It must feel terrible, but neither of them complain.

Faster than the Engine, Eddie has Waylon’s head in his hands, cock shoved into his mouth. Waylon chokes and throws up smoke. The two of them chase each other around the room in their echoing. Sounds ripple off of them. Honey and pollen, honey and pollen.

Neither knows what to do next. They just react.

Eddie can feel his heart start to shimmer. Soon it will be bright enough to be seen through the skin of his chest. Waylon knows it’s love. He can taste it when Eddie comes down his throat.

Waylon cleans his dick, thirsting for more. The two of them are ravenous for each other. They’re never content. Never full.

The pyromaniac must have caught wind of their behavior. While Waylon has Eddie in a headlock, his cock pumping furiously between thick, muscled legs, the edges of the room go up in burgundy flame.

It’s warm, but it feels colder. Waylon grips onto Eddie for comfort. He spills himself right beneath Eddie’s balls. They shout together. The pollen blackens, the honey runs like rain.

Nooses above them swing by invisible, un-feel-able wind. The bodies that are hung up sing their chastised tunes, killing themselves over and over on ghostly blades. Blades kissing their necks, their thighs, their chests. The canvas of the sacks pulled over their heads. Circling the bulge of their necrotic gaze.

Waylon rides Eddie. His hips snap forward and down, making sure to give the one he adores the thrill of a lifetime. He bites in to Eddie’s neck. He doesn’t stop until his lips look like the earth, and even then there is something left to be desired.

Eddie growls. Their positions change. Waylon can’t breathe, choked thoroughly by bristling hands. The fingers are a bright pink. Passion overlaid by insanity. Anger overlaid by love. Waylon’s eyes roll. He thrusts up to meet Eddie where he remains voracious.

An orchestra plays for them from the kitchen down the hall. Pots and pans clap their glee at such a loving, joyous couple.

Waylon spits blood into Eddie’s mouth. He dies, and his consciousness floats to the ceiling, trapped immediately by one noose after the next. The rope ties him down. It wraps around his arms and legs and wrists and ankles. His arms are tied behind his back. Waylon’s legs are bent behind him, too. He’s presented like a gift.

His corpse goes crazy. It writhes, feeling childless, empty, shriveled.

Eddie holds it down. He coos. He’s so enamored with Waylon. He would do anything for Waylon.

The corpse’s eyes close. His mouth goes slack. He stops moving. His flesh is beginning to loosen.

The skeleton will make its appearance if Eddie doesn’t treat the spirit well enough.

He abandons the body of his wife to cling to its soul.

Waylon’s soul is less fun than his body. His soul knows what his body can no longer remember.

His mouth is sewn shut. The mothers and sisters above were smart; they knew that their own souls were in similar states of distress before they were freed.

Eddie stills Waylon’s struggling form. It fades in and out of reality. When it comes back into view, there are tears. Sweat. Waylon’s screaming, but all Eddie can make out is the shivering of his effort.

He smooths his clawed hands down Waylon’s sides.

“My love’s… arbor,” he sings, gripping Waylon’s ass unkindly.

Moaning, Waylon almost blacks out from the shock. The anger. Sadness, betrayal, helplessness, violation. Violation. It is a violation.

Neither can remember in their razed forms.

Eddie’s smile meets at the back of his head. His eyes and nose depart, neck going green all the way down to his fifth rib.

They fuck again. It’s bitter with Waylon’s soul. Too much feedback. Not enough mutuality. Eddie cries when he comes. He can’t see anymore, but he can smell the finality in the air when it’s done.

It didn’t work.

His wife has gone away.


End file.
